The Iowa Bikeathon

A most amiable event

From a distant hill, the 40-mile-long multicolored ribbon, snaking through the Iowa cornfields, looks like the ultimate outdoor crazy sculpture. At hub and t-shirt level it turns out to be the American version of the Tour de France--sans hype, heartbreak, commercials, competition or prizes. It is the annual amateur week-long bicycle marathon from the Missouri to the Mississippi, as amiable a happening as any to be found in the U.S.

The event, sponsored by the Des Moines Register, is known as Ragbrai (pronounced rag-bray), for the Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. Last week, for the sixth and biggest Ragbrai run, some 5,500 bikers started from the Big Muddy at Sioux City and set out east across the lush, gently rolling heartland to dunk front wheels seven days later in the Father of Rivers at Clinton. En route, along 440 miles of tranquil back-country roads, the sportive pedalers pumped and panted, munched, sang and slurped through 42 towns and hamlets with such names as Unique, Popejoy, Maquoketa, Alice and Viola. If it was an exhilarating experience for the bikers, saddle sores and all, the Ragbrai caravan--accompanied by 500 four-wheel followers in cars, campers and motor homes--provided the event of the year for the sleepy communities it passed through.

Wheeling into Eagle Grove (pop. 4,489) at 9:30 a.m., dozens of thirsty bikers preempted the Alibi Lounge, chugalugging beers and cheering with every glass as if it were the last St. Patrick's Day, later forming a conga line on Main Street. At midmorning, in Washta (pop. 319), Joyce Johnson and friends from the United Methodist Church sold 600 Ibs. of hamburger and 400 Ibs. of hot dogs, 1,500 pieces of fruit, 7,000 candy bars and close to 280 cases of soda (no beer); the women figured on a $2,000 profit for the church. Outside Iowa Falls (pop. 6,454), Robert Eddy and pals set up a keg of suds in his van with a sign proclaiming FREE BEER. At Varina (pop. 140), where the Lions Club put on a spread (ham sandwiches, apples, homemade cookies, hot dogs) outside the elementary school, members thoughtfully spiked rolls of toilet paper on fence posts bordering the usefully protective 8-ft.-tall rows of corn. Night after night from the instant campgrounds across Iowa arose a bizarre melange of aromas: marijuana, freshly baked cookies, barbecues, sweat and suntan oil. Some folks thought the fragrance should be bottled. Essence de Ragbrai?

Who would pump away a sweltering midsummer week in Iowa, when beaches and lakes and Laker beckon? Just about anyone, according to TIME'S Midwest Bureau Chief Benjamin Gate, who monitored the cornbelt caravan, part of it on a borrowed ten-speed Gitane bike. The Ragbrai army, he reports, comes from all over the U.S. and from every way of life and income bracket. On the road, its members fall into five loose categories:

The Bike Nuts, who pedal $1,000 coinage machines, complete a 70-mile leg in five hours or less and, as one wag noted, "go so fast that no one ever sees them, and they see nothing of the scenery."

The Amiable Amateurs, who ride bikes year round but see the Ragbrai as the big annual adventure and stamina test.

The Togetherness Families, who view the tour as an extended family picnic. Harriet Burley, from Elk River, Minn., even brought along eight-year-old daughter Lynn on her Raleigh Rampar bike.

The Senior Cyclers, who find new romance on the road. They included the Lapels, Ray, 68, and Hazel, 67, from Vail, Iowa, who took turns tromping a tricycle.

The Handlebar Hedonists, to whom Ragbrai is a week-long holiday on spokes, a beer-guzzling and mate-catching challenge. On both scores, they seemed to make out quite well.

There were, of course, a few dropouts, but most victims of blisters, cramps, aches and fatigue were back on the road after a few hours in a trailer called the Sag Wagon. Not so fortunate was Pat Doyle, 20, a truck driver from Dubuque, who vowed at the start to "drink a beer at every saloon on this ride." Alas, for the pride of the Doyles, Pat crashed his bike on the fourth day in Iowa Falls, all those saloons and 250 miles from the last watering hole in Clinton. For those who made it from river to river, surviving the buttered corn, sweet rolls, doughnuts, lemonade, watermelon, apples, popcorn, homemade cookies, eggs-any-style, pork-burgers, wienies and pancakes, it was a nice way to make friends, stretch undiscovered muscles and, as Tour Director Don Benson put it, "eat your way across Iowa."

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.